Because We Care
by LilyIsAwesomerThanYou
Summary: When Detective Carlton Lassiter received a call about a jumper, he never expected to find Shawn Spencer on a roof drinking himself to death.


**First Psych story and a little angry/emotional piece. Yay.**

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Because We Care

"Psychic detective" Shawn Spencer had been shot at, kidnapped, and just about everything in between. He had faced terrifying situations, seemingly impossible circumstances.

And now, it seemed like he was in one of those impossible situations again. But this time, there were no guns or bombs, no loved ones' lives on the line.

Shawn walked out of the police station, his emotions battling within him. He unlocked Gus' blue Echo, which he had "forgotten" to ask permission to borrow and sat in the driver's seat for a long moment. He rested his head on the steering wheel. Shawn knew what was in the backseat, hidden from view by two bags – one plastic and one brown paper. A choice. An escape route.

He raised his head and drew in a deep breath before putting the car into gear. He backed out and drove a few blocks, parking outside one of the tallest hotels in the city. He looked up at the six-story building. It was just a couple of blocks from the police station. If the detectives wanted, they could even watch.

Shawn sneered and reached into the backseat to grab the paper bag from behind the seat. He slipped the keys in his pocket and entered the building, feeling the hard ridges of the whiskey bottle through the paper.

Having lied his way to the roof of the hotel, Shawn stepped quickly over to the edge. He sucked in an awed breath. He could see everything from here – the ocean, all the houses and parks, the police station. Hell, he could even see the Psych office from here.

Shawn lifted his legs over and seated himself steadily on the edge of the roof. He tore the paper off the whiskey and tossed it off to the side, unscrewing the lid and getting rid of it as well. He took a long swig, feeling the welcome burn of the alcohol as it slid down his throat.

His phone buzzed suddenly in his pocket and he pulled it out. It was a message from Gus.

_Shawn, where is my car?!_

Shawn chuckled humorlessly and threw his phone over his shoulder. He supposed Gus would find his car soon enough.

He took another sip of whiskey and gazed out across the ocean.

oOoOo

Detective Carlton Lassiter was sitting at his desk finishing up his reports for the day when the call came in. Jumper, male, mid-thirties.

He groaned and put his head in his hands. It had been a slow day, but this was not what he had in mind. But regardless, it was his job. He checked that his gun was in its proper place in the holster, picked up his keys and jacket, and hurried out the door.

When he parked his car outside the hotel, Lassiter growled in irritation at the crowd of people that had already assembled on the sidewalk, their hands shading their faces from the sun as they peered upward. Lassiter would never understand humans' fascination with tragedy.

The detective shifted his gaze upward as well, squinting to get a better view of the man perched on the edge of the roof.

He froze. Was that Spencer? No. Surely the ridiculous idiot was lazing about in his travesty of an office or bothering the chief back at the station. Surely he was off investigating one of Lassiter's cases without permission or having "visions" of unsolved murders. Because surely, _surely_ that could not be Shawn Spencer – happy-go-lucky moron of a "psychic" – sitting on a roof contemplating suicide.

Lassiter willed his feet to move and ran through the mob of onlookers. He burst through the doors and sprinted up the stairs until he reached the roof, where he leaned over, slightly out of breath. Spencer's back was to him.

He took a few hesitant steps forward and called out the younger man's name.

oOoOo

"Spencer?"

Shawn spun around, his head swirling drunkenly as he tried to match a face to the unexpected, familiar voice. A tall man in a suit stood several feet behind Shawn, sunlight reflecting brilliantly off the gold badge fastened to his belt.

Shawn squinted and gave a lopsided grin. "Lassie?"

Lassiter nodded almost imperceptibly. "What are you doing, Spencer?"

"Shawn," the younger man slurred.

"Pardon?"

"My name's Shawn."

The detective's eyebrows furrowed slightly as he took a step forward. "Well then, Shawn, what are you doing?"

"_What does it look like I'm doing?!_" Harsh. Bitter.

"To me, it looks like you're getting drunk and making a mistake," Lassiter responded, stepping forward again. He could see the near-empty whiskey bottle from where it dangled over the edge.

Shawn let out a bitter laugh. "A mistake? Don't tell me what's right and wrong for my life, Lassiter."

"Perhaps not, but I think you should know what you're throwing away. Let me ask a different question: how did it all lead to this?"

Shawn turned back toward the city and the open ocean again. He took a sip of whiskey before answering. "I just can't do it anymore, Lassie. All the pretending."

"Pretending?" Lassiter questioned and stepped forward again. He was within grabbing distance of Spencer now.

"Pretending to be happy, pretending nothing matters. . ." He paused to run a hand through his hair in distress. "Pretending to be psychic! That's right, detective. I've been pretending the whole time."

Lassiter sucked in an audible breath. He had been right. And yet somehow, he received no pleasure from that fact.

At the man's silence, Shawn cast half a glance back. "Nothing to say, Lassie? No handcuffs ready to haul me back to the station? You threatened to prosecute."

"I did," Lassiter replied after a moment, "but it doesn't matter now."

Shawn's voice grew angry. "It doesn't _matter_?! No, it means _everything_!"

"Of course it means something, Shawn, but I hardly think – forget it." Puzzled, he demanded, "Tell me how you solve the cases. You've done extraordinary work for the department, much as it pains me to admit it."

"I have what's called an eidetic memory – photographic, I guess you could say. My father wanted me to be a cop like him, so he trained me to be hyper-observant. I notice every detail and remember everything. I put together what the rest of you don't remember or maybe even see."

Lassiter stepped forward until he was at the edge of the roof as well. He looked down and sucked in a breath when he saw the long drop.

"Impressive," the detective remarked, now looking across the city.

"I would tell you to test me some time, but I'm afraid you won't get the chance," Shawn responded, his voice hard.

Lassiter was silent for a moment. "I wish you would rethink that, Shawn."

"Oh, you're one to talk. You hate me. You've made it clear enough over the past years." There was a bitter edge to Shawn's retort.

"I don't hate you," Lassiter said automatically. At Shawn's skeptical glare, he continued. "I certainly dislike your unique method of investigating, and your lack of self-preservation is astounding, but I definitely don't hate you. I value guns and traditional police work and investigation of the cold, hard facts. Your unconventional methods are a far stretch from what I'm comfortable with. I may be skeptical, but you have an incredible solve rate, and no amount of skepticism can detract from that."

Shawn looked like he was torn between reassurance and irritation. "This has nothing to do with my solve rate, and it's not even close to being all about you! So many people hate me; I get death threats constantly. Why not just do it myself – make them all happy?"

"Police work is dangerous, Shawn. You make an incredible amount of enemies. You think I don't have people that hate me?" As the detective spoke, Shawn smiled slightly, recalling the disastrous surprise party Juliet had planned for him a few years before. "People are always going to hate you, Shawn. The important thing to know is that you have so many friends here at the station – O'Hara, the chief, McNabb . . . myself. We all . . . _care_" – he spoke the word through gritted teeth – "about you."

Shawn hesitated and drank a bit more of the amber alcohol.

"Shawn, please. If this is about enemies and hate, this isn't the right answer. There's so much support –"

"Of course it's not just about that. It's just . . . You wouldn't understand," Shawn breathed, his voice and face defeated.

"Then help me," Lassiter bit back. "Because I'm here on behalf of all the people who don't want you to do this."

"It's everything! You're trying to convince me that all these people care, but you don't understand! Nobody sees the real me! Nobody sees how broken, screwed up, and _pathetic_ I am! Sure, these people like me, but they like me as happy-go-lucky, psychic, pineapple-loving Shawn, not just Shawn. And certainly not depressed, suicidal Shawn. Gus doesn't even pay any attention to me now that he's got his new girlfriend. He won't even help me out with the business half the time! Chief Vick cares, sure, but only about her psychic case-solver. Besides, she's got to take care of Iris. And my _father_ . . ." Shawn trailed off and took a couple of long swigs from the bottle.

"Your father?" Lassiter pressed, guessing much of what Spencer was going to say from the brief time he had spent with Henry Spencer himself. But Shawn needed to talk about it, get it off his chest. "What about your father?"

"He doesn't care! Growing up, he _never_ cared! All he did was restrict me, lecture me, yell at me. I was never good enough and I never will be. I'm nothing but a disappointment and I always have been. Hell, the two things he despises the most are psychics and private detectives. I'm about the biggest disappointment possible in his eyes," Shawn ranted, drinking more as he became more upset.

"I know I'm not Henry, but you are far from a disappointment, Shawn. You've done a lot of impressive work for the department. You've accomplished more than many of the cops at the station have in their entire careers. So whatever your father thinks, whatever he says – he's wrong," Lassiter insisted.

Shawn scowled. "Oh, don't act like you're so innocent. You insult me and put me down every opportunity that you get. I guess you may not hate me, but that doesn't keep you from playing a role in this."

Lassiter felt an uncomfortable knot of guilt settle in his chest. "I – I'm sorry, Shawn. I had no idea about any of this. I shouldn't have – I'm sorry."

The younger man turned away. He threw the empty bottle to the side; it shattered loudly on the hard ground.

"Thanks," he intoned lowly, no emotion in his voice. He shifted on the edge of the roof. "Thank you, Lassie, but look – you're not helping. It's time for you to leave."

Lassiter's voice rose for the first time. "I'm not going to _leave_ you, Shawn! You are my friend, and friends do not leave friends in these situations!"

He moved and wrapped an arm firmly around Shawn's chest and pulled him back from where he was beginning to sway forward toward the open air.

Shawn twisted and struggled to escape the detective's strong grip. "Let me _go!_ Stop it! You don't understand!"

Lassiter used his other arm in an attempt to secure the other man. 'What don't I understand, Shawn? That you want me to let you go so you can end it all? No, I understand perfectly, and I'm not letting you go."

"Damn it, Lassie! You don't understand! _No one cares!_" Desperation and pain leaked into Shawn's tone.

Lassiter pulled Shawn off the edge and pinned him down on the roof, quickly slapping handcuffs around the man's wrists. Shawn struggled and drunkenly mumbled something about being arrested.

"No, Shawn, _you_ don't understand. We would care. We would miss you. _I_ would miss you."

Suddenly, Shawn stopped struggling. He began shaking uncontrollably, and it took a moment for Lassiter to realize that the young man was sobbing. Shawn began swearing profusely between sobs and mumbled under his breath before speaking audibly.

"Why wouldn't you just leave me? This is what I wanted. This is what everyone wanted. But clearly, I can't even kill myself properly." The younger man rested his forehead on the warm roof. "_Damn it, Lassie!_ _You don't understand! I was making things better for everyone._"

Lassiter's voice cut in authoritatively. "Shut up, Shawn. _Shut up_. You're wrong. This may be what you thought that you wanted, but I assure you that no one else wanted you to do this – not me, not Gus, not your father. Regardless of what you believe, our lives wouldn't be better without you here. They would be so much more boring and less happy. So no, Shawn. _You_ don't understand."

Shawn started crying again. "I don't understand. I don't understand," he muttered, his face pressed against the roof.

"What you need to understand, Shawn, is that it would hurt all of us if you were gone. Even if you mess up sometimes, even if you aren't really psychic, we would much rather deal with that than your absence." Lassiter's voice was quiet, and he began to sit up, shifting his weight off of Shawn. "I'm going to get up now, Shawn, and I'm not going to remove those handcuffs until we're off the roof of this building. But right now, I need you to promise me that you're not going to come back here and try this again." His blue eyes were searching and beseeching.

"I – I can't – "

"Promise me, Shawn. If you feel like this again, talk to Gus. Talk to Juliet. Come talk to me." When the younger man did not respond, Lassiter continued. "Please, Shawn. Please let us help you. We care."

Shawn thunked his head against the roof softly. "You're not just doing this to ridicule me?"

"Of course not."

"Fine, then. I'll talk to you when I'm getting bad," the pseudo-psychic conceded, still staring at the floor.

Lassiter let out a breath that he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "Good. Now let's get you off this damn roof." He stood up and tugged Shawn to his feet as well. With his hand lightly on the younger man's back, Lassiter guided him down the stairs and out into the sunlight, where the crowd of tragedy-seeking people cheered loudly. The detective growled and led Shawn to his car, seating him in the back where there was no way for him to escape.

"But – but my car – " Shawn stammered, still cuffed, looking out the window toward Gus' blue Echo.

"I don't think so, Shawn. You expect me to let you drive off to God-knows-where after this? No, I'm taking you to the mental hospital to get you some real help," Lassiter bit out as he slid into the driver seat.

"But my friends – my parents – "

"I'll handle it. The important thing is helping you right now."

He drove across town and parked in front of the hospital, then got out and uncuffed Shawn. He led him into the building and filled out all the necessary paperwork to admit the young man. Lassiter leaned down and gave Shawn an awkward, one-armed hug before ushering him away.

"Because we care," the detective clarified gruffly, his blue eyes following the man as the nurse took him away.

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